Lou. Lou. Lou.

We have a new manager. Lou Piniella. I predict he will receive a warm welcome in The Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field.

A beloved outfielder in New York, a fiesty and often-ejected manager, I also predict he will be like Leo Durocher, the Cubs manager when I was a little girl. Piniella will bring us glory. Maybe not in 2007, but certainly by 2008. And he will completely steal the spotlight from the gloryhound gay-baiter, Ozzie Guillen.

Lou. Lou. Lou.

We may have finally reached critical mass

I believe in the two-party system. I get misty when I hear patriotic songs. I don't believe in the politics of destruction and try to vote FOR a candidate, rather than against his opponent.

However, I have lived in Cook County all my life. The only way to maintain my idealism is to look the other way, or at least look at certain situations and wink.

But this gubernatorial race makes it hard.

Judy Baar Topinka was treasurer alongside our former Governor, George Ryan. The one who is convicted and headed to prison, where he will most likely die while serving his sentence. The misdeeds Ryan was found guilty of are horrible, even by Cook County standards. It is hard to believe that JBT wasn't aware of the shenanigans.

Even if she didn't know what then Governor Ryan was up to, look at who she chose as her running mate. Joe Birkett. One of the convicts that Northwestern University students helped take from death row to exoneration was Rolando Cruz. Birkett was in charge of the attorneys who zealously prosecuted Cruz. I would prefer it if when the State of Illinois executes someone in my name, that the defendent be guilty. I'm old-fashioned that way. (Oh, I know; George Ryan helped reform the death penalty in this state. Nothing here is simple.)

JBT is running against the incumbent, Rod Blagojevich. I have always tried to like him. He ran a brave campaign last time, winning an office so tainted by corruption I was amazed anyone would want it. I had hoped he would be a breath of fresh air. That was before Tony Rezko, the Governor's fundraiser, was indicted. Rezko is not in the country right now and rumor has it he will avoid prosecution by simply staying out of the country.

Peee-eeew.

Even I am having a hard time overlooking that.

I'm voting for Blagojevich, but I don't really care if he wins. For the first time I am agreeing with my more cynical friends who say, "What difference will it make? They are all crooks."

My highly personal metaphor

In Laurie's world, Books = Men.

I love books. I love men.

I can find something good, valuable or fun in even the silliest, lowest-brow volume of chick lit. I can find something attractive and endearing about most men, even the ones I know I should dismiss as time wasters.

There's an instant chemistry between me and a book; within the first few pages it either grabs me, or it doesn't. There are men I "click" with right away, and men I simply don't.

Once I choose a book, I want to like it, and can be very stubborn about giving up on it. A recent example of this is End of the Dream by Ann Rule. I usually like Ann's books and this one got good reviews. But this one introduces too many characters too quickly (who is he again? why do I care?) and the plot, while a true story, is just too convoluted for this old brain. I tried to like it, but it took me two weeks to go 50 pages and finally I just gave up. It's now sitting on my dining room table, taunting me.

Unfortunately this stubborn streak is more virulent when it comes to men. I wish I could say that I have had the self awareness to give up on a relationship after just two weeks. After all, I spent my twenties on Stevie!

Why aren't I more upset?

My immediate team of coworkers is small, 9 in all. I know one of my merry little band is resigning Monday morning. I suspect a second will, as well. They will be hard to replace, and when we get busier, their absence will mean more responsibility for me.

How's this for a kick in the ass? The one I know for sure is leaving is someone who begged and pleaded that I suspend my own job search, that I stick it out for a while to help her become acclimated to this job, to our client. That was 6 months ago. Now she's out of here, following a former boss to a new job.

And then there's the fact that of the six who remain, I can't stand two of them.

I should be furious. I should be worried. I should be anxious.

But mostly, I'm just thinking that I have a short workweek and a trip to Vegas ahead of me.

Have I mellowed? Or is there a delayed stress reaction in my future?

Mets vs. Cardinals

So this is what hell looks like. As a Cub fan, I can think of no worse match up.

As I understand Major League Baseball, one team has to win this play off. I suppose, then, that I am for the Cardinals. For while I hate the Cards, I only do so because I was raised to. Generations of my family has just hated the Cardinals because that's what right-thinking Northsiders do.

The Mets, though. It's personal with me and the Mets, as it always is when your heart gets broken. I was still a little girl, but I loved just about every one of those Durocher Cubs. They were my team, a great team. And those 1969 Mets came out of nowhere, like the posessed demons they are, to dash our hopes. I hate the Mets.

So I guess all I can say is, "GO DETROIT!"

This is very bad news

I knew it was coming, and yesterday was the day. I received a postcard from Guthy Renker, officially announcing that my beloved Time Release Moisture is no longer available through Principal Secret.

I called in and changed my next order. In December I will receive Reclaim Night Cream instead. We'll see. I'm trying to maintain an open mind, but I'm not happy.

I know I'm fixating. But this is what I do. Takes my mind off how much I hate my job and how I keep getting these annoying little tension headaches and how today is payday and it's time for me to sit down and actually attack that stack of bills that awaits me on the dining room table.

Belated props to the Birthday Boy

October 9 was the anniversary of John Lennon's birth. Perhaps that's why I've been thinking of him so often lately.

Or maybe it's this "shut up and sing" shit I keep reading about Streisand. I think it's amazing that anyone would actually begrudge her using her own stage show to express her opinions. I mean, I just shake my head. She's an interpretive artist and it's her show. Artists have been commenting on our society, tweaking and annoying us, at least since Uncle Tom's Cabin. You don't like what Babs has to say? Change the channel when she appears on your TV and don't go to her show. But saying she shouldn't speak her mind from the stage ... that's downright unpatriotic. What's next? Should authors stop using the pages of their books to express themselves? Directors stop using film?

I also think it's interesting that no one complains when a country western singer performs a song that celebrates the Iraq war. Or when Patricia Heaton does interviews lauding Bush and his policies. Isn't she "just a sitcom actress?" Shouldn't she just "shut up and be funny?" Or when that blonde Mrs. QB is all conservative on The View. Or what is broadcast 24/7 on FOX. I would never complain about any of those things either, because while I disagree with all of them, I think dialog is essential. Everyone should have a voice. Especially artists. We live in a free society, and freedom of self expression is one of our cornerstones.

I realize I think this is good and right and natural and important because I grew up on The Beatles. I'm a Paul Girl. I love him. (No, really. I have loved him since I was 6 years old.) But I always thought John was really neat. Paul has inspired decades and decades of romantic fantasies, but John inspired me to think. One of the first political songs I ever "got" was "Revolution." I agree with John. It's our responsibility to work within the system for change. I've supported candidates with time and money ever since I've been old enough to vote.

"Power to the People," "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)," "Imagine," "Give Peace a Chance." Look what happened when John "shut up and sang," folks. I love thinking of what he'd be doing now, at age 66. I like to think that while their musical styles are different, he'd be touring, too. And like Streisand, speaking his mind and shouting down hecklers. Though I think instead of dropping the F bomb he'd say, "Sod off!" (I also think it's interesting that people complain that she swore at someone who paid hundreds of dollars for his ticket. Isn't he the asshole for interrupting a show that he knows his fellow audience members spent hundreds of dollars to see? This whole thing is just befuddling to me, like I've fallen down the rabbit hole.)

Just as there was John, there's Paul. John tried to heighten our political consciences, Paul believes we need "Silly Love Songs." The world is flexible enough for both points of view. You don't like politics mixed with your easy listening? Barry Manilow is touring, too, and his ticket prices are lower than Streisand's. Go see him instead.

But we shouldn't try to discourage the artist from commenting. Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Robert Redford, George Clooney, Bruce Springsteen ... all of them have used their art to expand my horizons and I'm grateful. Most of all, I'm grateful to John Lennon, who turned me on to it all. Funny how it was a Brit who turned me on to one of the best, one of the most intrinisic things about being American.

Happy belated birthday, John. I still miss 'ya.

Thanks, neighbor!

Frasier's dad, John Mahoney, has come home. Since the series ended, he has been living full-time in his Oak Park apartment, the one he's had for decades. Even when Frasier was being filmed, Mr. Mahoney would come home at least once a month. When I first moved here we were literally neighbors. Since I bought my own place, we're about 5 blocks apart. We've never met, but I have seen him around town over years, usually during the holidays.

I appreciate that when he is interviewed, he is careful to say that he has come home to Oak Park. He specifies this fabulous village. He works downtown, but he lives in Oak Park.

All the best people do.

Pretty in Pink

I couldn't sleep and decided it was time for a change. I think I like this template. And if I don't, no reason why I can't change it back.

Greetings from the Stoney End

Barbra Streisand has been in the news a lot lately. Her ticket prices, her politics, her dropping the "f bomb" from the stage. Whatever. I love her voice. I love most of her movies, but I completely love her music.

One of my favorite performances of hers is "Stoney End." The song was written by Laura Nyro, who also recorded it. So did Linda Ronstadt. But no one's performance touches Babs'. It's her passion, her rage, her pain that sets hers apart.

I've been listening to it a lot lately. It helps to know that Babs knows where I'm at, that Babs gets it. And she got far enough beyond it to charge up to $800/ticket and swear at people from stage. So there's still hope for me.


I was born from love and my poor mother worked the mines.
I was raised on the good book, Jesus, till I read between the lines.
Now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.
I can still remember him with love light in his eyes,
but the light flickered out and parted as the sun began to rise,
now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.
Never mind the forecast cause the sky has lost control,
cause the fury and broken thunder's come to match my raging soul,
now I don't believe I want to see the morning.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me.
Going down the Stoney End, I never wanted to go down the Stoney End.
Mama, let me start all over. Cradle me, mama, cradle me again.

I must be in a better mood today ...

... because complete strangers are making me angry again (whereas yesterday they would have just made me cry).

Bally's Health Club. A woman with very long legs decides that the amount of bench space we get in the locker room must somehow correlate to our height. She spread out her handbag, her water bottle and her big gym bag all along the bench so that when I sat down, I was barely in the same area code as the locker with my belongings. Rude! Rude! Rude! It would be nice to have such a sense of entitlement that I felt I somehow deserved more space than anyone else. (It also would be nice to have her legs.)


McDonald's. My niece has begun spending time at Mickey D's with her friends. She is in 7th grade now, and there are no busy streets and she has her cellphone, so I guess it's OK. (But she does have a real love affair with food, so I wish her friends still preferred Panera because as fast food goes it's of higher quality.) Her birthday is coming up so I bought her an Arch Card, loaded with $5, to slip into her card. Today it occurred to me that, even at McDonald's, $5 isn't going to go very far, so I tried to add another $5. It says on the card and on the website that you can reload the card anytime. Unfortunately, the only ones who don't seem to know this are the counter staff at the McDonald's on Wabash in Chicago's Loop.

The fresh-faced, polite kid behind the counter wanted to be helpful but had no idea how to accomplish what I was asking of him. So he called over his supervisor, who spoke heavily accented English and seemed confused about my request, too, but for different reasons. He took my $5, played around with my card, swiping it several times, grumbled something and disappeared. Then he brought me a new card which he assured me was worth $5. Instead of loading the card I originally handed him, he had erased it.

Okay ... but then I'm still out $5, aren't I? It took me forever to explain this to him, and he was the polite kid's SUPERVISOR. The kid understood me, the people in line around me understood me, but the supervisor did not. I told him to forget it, that I just wanted a $10 bill and no card, and to get out of there. Somehow, in his eyes, all this was my fault.

So I'm sorry, Beck, but it's back to Panera for you. Their food is lower in fat and they understand their own gift card program.

Gals I'm glad I can't channel

As I wrestle with issues of self esteem and personal direction, I would love to go to a Ouija board and get help from a pair of former First Ladies (see below). There are other famous women who have dealt with similar issues on a much grander scale, and their life stories have touched me enormously. But even if we could somehow meet for a cosmic tea party or perhaps sit down for girl talk and cosmos in some celestial bar, I don't think I would take their advice.

Diana, Princess of Wales. Beautiful and beloved, her death was a shock and it left a void that people still feel today. She was revered for her selfless charity work. She was admired for her fashion sense and charisma. She also dealt with bulimia/anorexia, post-partum depression, insecurity about her intellect and a dramatic, self-destructive streak a mile wide. For example, back in the early 1990s she was rumored to be enamored of a married man in her social circle named Oliver Hoare. (Whether or not they were actually lovers has never been established, has it?) She became so overcome by her love/infatuation with him that she made a series of anonymous phone calls to his home. It became such a nuisance that his wife called the police, and the trail led back to the (then) future Queen of England. (I haven't done anything that desperate and dopey … yet. Though I understand her impulse.) These scandalous revelations don't diminish her in my eyes, they enhance her humanity. But I don't think she's a good role model for me just now.

Marilyn Monroe. Oh, the hold she still has on us! My neice is just 13, yet knows Marilyn on sight and asked me recently if I thought she killed herself. Who among today's actresses could still command our interest almost 45 years after her death? She was luminous on screen, yet was so wracked with insecurity that some days she just couldn't leave her dressing room and show up on the set. An international, intergenerational sex symbol, she needed pills to sleep … alone. Always recreating herself, she seemed tormented by the circumstances of her early life. (I know it's a cliche but it still works: Marilyn Monroe just couldn't shake Norma Jean Baker.) To me, she's a perfect feminist cautionary tale: this is what happens you try to make yourself into who "they" want you to be. She seemed to have relinquished all of her personal power to the people around her. That's why, in answer to my neice's question, oddly enough I hope she did kill herself (or at least died as a result of an accidental overdose). Suicide is referred to as death "by one's own hand." When people say Marilyn was murdered, they even take that final, most personal decision away from her.

Mary Todd Lincoln. OK, she wasn't a babe. But she did win the heart of one of the greatest men of all time, so she had to have something going for her. Yet she was ultimately a tragic figure. She was smart, well educated and savvy enough in the ways of politics that she was able to help her husband realize his ambitions. (And what lofty ambitions they were for a poor country lawyer!) She was intellectually curious for a woman of her time, spending time with soldiers, newly freed slaves and even spiritualists in her attempt to learn more about the world around her. Her life story is one of staggering loss, though. Her mother died when she was very young, she had a tumultuous relationship with her stepmother, and she was at her husband's side when he was murdered. Even worse, of her four sons, only one grew to maturity, and he had her institutionalized. I don't know if her depression was caused by all this grief or if she had always been wound a bit too tight and this cavalcade of loss just pushed her over. It doesn't matter. Poor Mary wasn't strong enough to take what life gave her. I am especially haunted by an assessment of Mary, because I believe it's true of me, too. "She did the wrong things well."

Help me out here, girls

I am unhappy. No, let me rephrase: I am discontented. Everything about my life is positively … OK. Fine, I guess. Good enough.

The things that are bothering me are things that I wish didn't. I don't know how to change them and so I wish I could avoid spending another moment thinking about them. I think of women in the public eye that I have read a great deal about, and I wonder what counsel they would give me.

HILLARY CLINTON. I don't like my looks and I have no real sense of style. I remember one day, not that long ago, when I was sitting in my best friend's office, looking out the window at the Lake. We had been talking business and all of a sudden he got this bemused look on his face. "You dress as though you don't own a full-length mirror." I was wearing a green t-shirt, tiny green earrings, green watchband, slender green ring (coordinating shades, not entirely monochromatic), blue jeans and blue/white tennies. I thought that, when you consider my green eyes and red hair, I looked kinda nice with green around my face. I had no idea that people -- people who LIKE me -- were looking at me and saying, "Oh, fashion victim." I am that clueless. Now the friend who made the comment believes (believed, I guess) that I am bright and that smart women like me don't care about our looks. He is wrong. He is so wrong.

So come on, Hill, give me your secret. How do you handle it? How do you just stand there, knowing everyone is evaluating your looks, knowing your pantsuits and hair and makeup are being judged as much as the content of your remarks? Does it hurt when you are found lacking in this basic "female" art? Or do you say to yourself, "Shit, I'm not a geisha; I'm serious and I've got my shit together"?


JACKIE KENNEDY ONASSIS. The thing I admired most about JBKO is her self containment. No one knew what she was thinking. If she was hurting, it didn't show. She remained sphinx-like. I also admire her for, ultimately, doing as she pleased. She had the strength to go her own way and stay true to herself. I don't even know who I am sometimes. I'm nearly 50, my life is more than half over, and I still can't figure out how she did it. How do you rise above the stuff the swirls around you and find/maintain your inner peace, your sense of self? How do you withdraw into yourself, into that secret place, where you were able to appreciate the positive and timeless things in life while disregarding the rest? Pulling into myself used to recharge my battery, but this time it's not working. What would you do, Jacks? (Also, how come you always looked so effortlessly good?)

Nothing works

I thought that a stolen day off to enjoy one of our last sunny and warm afternoons would refresh me. It didn't.

I thought that doing something constructive -- putting away my summer clothes, taking out my winter clothes -- would make me feel productive. It didn't.

I thought that doing something charitable -- dropping off a bag of clothes to Goodwill -- would make me feel as though I have value. It didn't.

I thought having a guy flirt with me -- the one in line ahead of me at Parky's hot dogs -- would make me feel like everyone doesn't peg me as a pudgy middle-aged lesbian. It didn't.

I am in a very dark place these days. And tomorrow, when I return to work, that coworker of mine is going to glom onto me like a carbuncle. In a weak moment I offered her the seat next to mine at a play this Wednesday (my regular theater buddy can't make it). I'm not looking forward to it. She's in love with her victimhood, and I'm working hard to resist mine. I don't want her sapping me or bringing me down.

I'm seeing my shrink on Thursday. She has her work cut out for her.

Consider Goodwill as you go thru your closets

Today I dropped off 7 t-shirts, a polo and two sweaters. In return I got a nice little receipt for the tax man, and the knowledge that I helped people right here in my neighborhood get jobs.

www.goodwill.org

Dammitall!

I had planned to stay incommunicado today, inaccessible to my best friend when he tries to let know about his weekend in Disneyland and his preparation for tomorrow's big meeting. I was going to not respond to his emails, not pick up or return his calls. Of course, in order to do that, he would have to call me or email me first. And he hasn't. Thereby depriving me of my petty, immature fun.

Is it a sin?

We're very slow at work these days. I am in a tender place emotionally. I don't feel like speaking to anyone. So I called in sick. But not sick for me. I made up a story regarding one of my cats and a trip to the vet. I took this route so that if my boss decides he needs me, I can come in this afternoon with having to feign (cough, cough) a cold or flu.

Now, though, I'm worried about kitty karma. Have I put one of my felines at risk with my deception?

I will try to do something productive with my additional day off. Maybe go through my clothes and put some aside for Goodwill. Perhaps that will square it with The Powers that Be.

And now for a little culture

Did you know there was more to me than baseball, the Beatles and lurid crime programs? Well there is! And here are my recommendations, my reviews of the best of the best …

THE PIRATE QUEEN. Elaborately staged and always entertaining, The Pirate Queen is premiering here in Chicago. Because it's the pre-Broadway engagement, we knew going into it that the show was going to need a little work. And it does; it's too, too long and the male lead is a little blah. But the story -- of Grace O'Malley, the wife, mother and pirate queen who clashed with Queen Elizabeth in long ago Ireland -- is compelling, the sets are sumptuous, and the Pirate Queen herself is terrific. Stephanie J. Block is all passion and spirit and pipes. And she's the voice of Barbie on the TV commercials! So I got to see Barbie herself, live and in person!

THE DEPARTED. Gruesome and great. I'm not a big Scorsese fan, but this is the best film I've seen in a long, long time. Jack Nicholson is a goofy cartoon of evil, but it's the same over-the-top performance audiences (not including me) have been loving for decades. Leonardo Di Caprio draws us in with a diffident, pained, charismatic performance. For me, the real revelation was Matt Damon. Good Will Hunting is sure as hell not very good here. The dichotomy between that angelic face and his depraved action creates a fascinating tension. Mark Wahlberg isn't pictured on the poster, but he's great in this, too.

Look! It's Kate McArdle!

Except for a Today Show interview regarding the tragic death of her son, I haven't seen Susan Saint James in ages. I loved her on Kate & Allie and I'm happy to see her tonight, on the USA Network's Law & Order: SVU marathon. She plays a defense attorney and she looks great, though startlingly blonde.

The subject matter of the show is, as always on SVU, tough. But there's something amusing about this episode, for it's a reunion of old sitcom stars.

Look, there's Angela Bauer from Who's the Boss! Judith Light is on the bench for this episode.

Look, there's the mayor and the gay guy from Spin City! Barry Bostwick and Michael Boatman are co-counsel.

But I've got a new purse

• Baseball is over until next year.
• I photograph badly.
• Because I have a fat, ruddy face.
• I'm a complete pudge, yet I ate an entire Whitman sampler on the bus home.
• I hate my job.
• I'll never have sex again.
• My sisters are both useless blobs of protoplasm.
• 100 Iraqi civilians die every day in sectarian violence.

But lookee, lookee, lookee! I've got a new purse. A sweet, camel-colored hobo (much lighter than the brown one shown here). ON SALE!

Between the new bag and the chocolate, I may just be OK after all.

Don't blame Greg ...

Blame me. As I was racing back home with beer to enjoy with last night's Dodgers-Mets game, it occured to me: He's not going to be able to do it tonight. Somehow I just knew. I'm in a hopeless place right now when nothing seems right. So since I wanted so badly to see him do well, post-season and in front of a nationwide audience, it just stood to reason that he would blow it.

So when Greg Maddux unravelled in the first inning it was my fault, not his. I jinxed him by my very existance.

But look at his numbers! Take that disastrous first inning out of the mix and he did a creditable job. He doesn't look at it that way, of course. The Professor is talking about retiring.

Of course I want him to come back. Just look at all he accomplished this year! He performed admirably in Cubbie blue, far better than his stats show. The mature veteran who was supposed to be our fourth starter became our second starter when neither Prior nor Wood could come back. We had no bullpen, so he stayed in games much longer than he wished to. And he still delivered for us as well as any pitcher but Zambrano.

He was rejuvenated by (leaving me and) moving to LA, racking up yet another season of 15 or more wins. Take the 334 career wins out of the mix, because that's for Cooperstown and I'm thinking about 2007 here. He had 15 wins this year and, kids, it pains me to say it but he managed to accomplish this with a Cub team that simply could not support him.

So I hope he will spend the winter working on his hand/eye coordination (playing golf) and perhaps losing a few pounds (that's just because I find him more attractive with a little less in his "center of gravity") and refreshing his spirit. And I hope he will rejoin Nomar in Dodger blue next year.

And if he does choose to hang it up, well, thanks for all of it, Greg Maddux. It's been a joy.

What not to do on a bad day

Sat for my "portrait" for my church directory. Just the thing to do when you're feeling fat and pimply and just plain useless. At first when I saw my face come up on screen, over and over, seven times in all, I was appalled. I'm a ruddy pudge with too-pale eyebrows. Once I calmed down and took a closer look, I realized the photographer really did know what he was doing. "Tilt your head this way, raise your chin just a bit, glance over this way ..." It felt very silly as I was doing, but as photos of a ruddy pudge with too-pale eyebrows go, these are pretty good.

Read about Jen and Vince's real-life breakup. I'm strictly Team Aniston. Apparently Vince got tired of the media circus that follows Jen, and that she can be too demanding, too high maintenance. It makes me sad. Brad was supposed to be her lobster, and look how that ended. She and Vaughn were at Wrigley Field over Memorial Day and looked so happy. And now they're over. Sniff, sniff.

Pick your Hepburn

A website called Style Dash compares the two very different icons with the same last name. Apparently they're like the Beatles and Elvis: you can like them both, but odds are you only LOVE one of them. Now that I think of it, that's probably true.

As fashion icons, they couldn't be more different. According to Style Dash's Deidre Woollard, they can be summed up this way: Kate wore shirts, Audrey wore blouses; Kate was brash confidence, Audrey was fragile beauty.

As movie icons, they shared this: neither one of them ever disappeared completely into character because they were characters themselves: Oh, let's watch Kate shoot the rapids in Bogie's boat! Uh-oh, that nasty man is terrorizing poor blind Audrey! Each woman's persona was so indelible and likable that we enjoyed the familiarity, and probably never would have forgiven either of them if they strayed too far from the women we (thought we) knew.

I like them both, but I LOVE Kate.

The strength of my favorite Kate performances comes from us knowing instantly how good and how beautiful (both inside and out) she is, but it takes a while for her leading men (from Fred MacMurray in Alice Adams through Cary Grant in Holiday onto Spencer Tracy in Desk Set) to catch on. There are the movies (Adam's Rib, Woman of the Year, Philadelphia Story) where she was a bit too big for her khaki britches and it took a strong man to cut her down to size. I like the films in this category way less. There's something misogynistic about how we're supposed to delight in the downfall that's ultimately for her own good.

When I think of Kate, I think of On Golden Pond, because she should have been Jane Fonda's mother. And I think that, in a cinematic sense, she was. There's a much stronger line between Kate and Jane than there is between feisty Kate and ethereal Audrey.


http://www.styledash.com

For she has got ... ANOTHER GUY

Seems that the soon-to-be-ex Lady McCartney has a constant companion who makes sure she never gets lonely as she travels the world first class. According to the Daily Mail (a publication which, I must disclose, seems to really hate Heather Mills), 24-year-old Ben Amigoni has been at Heather's side constantly since she and Paul split. He's either her personal trainer or body guard, but no matter what role he's playing, he's always by her side -- even when she's flying from London to Los Angeles. The price for his round trip ticket? According to the Daily Mail, well over $5000.

Heather Mills still receives a monthly "allowance" from Sir Paul. I bet he's thrilled by how she spends it.

You've Got to Have Friends

Or so sings Bette Midler. When this album first came out, back when I was in high school, I believed her. Today I'm not so sure.

Last night my best friend called me at 11:00 (9:00 his time). He needed help with a presentation that someone had just dumped on him. It's the kinda thing I'm kinda good at, so I said I'd pitch in. It took us three solid hours, which means my head didn't hit the pillow until 2:00 AM. Still, I was happy that I had been a help. He didn't seem especially grateful, only anxious about all the unexpected work he still had to do, but I didn't mind.

Today, on the other hand, I mind.

I had a little free time this morning so I reformatted what we did last night and sent it off to him. A nice little value-added surprise, or so I thought. When I got back from lunch there was a voicemail from him, telling me what I needed to do to improve the deck and asking me to look up some competitive information for him. I got an offhand "thanks" as he hung up.

Um … let's see … He works for another company now. I'm doing all this for free. Arguably, I shouldn't even be doing it at all on this company's time. (In fact, when I got out of a meeting and tried to revise the document, I got an "error" message that the file was being revised by someone else and I almost shit a brick. Thank goodness I kiss up to IT all the time! They unlocked it so I could send it off to him and trash the file.) Grateful would be nice. Not another assignment, but full-on gratitude.

And then there's my coworker. She's going through a rough spot in her marriage. But she's been going through this rough spot since July and it's getting way old. Her shrink tells her that she should develop interests all her own, outside the marriage, so that she can regain her autonomy. And she's decided that the new interest should be me.

She comes in here, sits in one of the guest chairs, and stares at me. She plays with hair and expects me to entertain her. Apparently I'm quite lacking in this regard, because she tries to hide her boredom by yawning through her nostrils. Um … get outta here. She wants to go to lunch almost every day. She wants to go see this movie or that play after work. I don't wanna. I like my alone time.

And I don't like people I have to feel sorry for, and she's in full-on victim mode. She wells up when she talks about her husband, which she does all the time. She's afraid to leave him, even though she makes more than he does. There are no kids to consider. She's simply afraid to be alone.

I simply do not understand this. I try to be sympathetic. But I've never been married. I've always lived alone. Her issues are not, and have never been, my issues. I want to be Melanie Hamilton, but I find myself behaving like an impatient Scarlett O'Hara every time she enters my office.

Not the matchup of my dreams, not tomorrow, at least

Hong-Chih Kuo is a talented young man who is probably very good to his mother. But he is not Greg Maddux. Therefore, watching him pitch against Tom Glavine does not get my pulse racing. Yet that is what is going to happen tomorrow.

Oh, there's some inherent drama. Kuo was 6 years old when Glavine pitched his first major league game, so there's the "old dog" vs. "young pup" story. And they are both lefties, so that's interesting.

But watching those two old friends, those two former teammates, face one another in what could very well be each man's last postseason series. Maddux and Glavine ... sigh. That sure would have been a duel to watch.

Scary stuff

That which scares us is individual, personal, and hard to articulate because we don't like thinking about it, much less talking about it. Alfred Hitchcock understood. In his classic Psycho shower scene, you seldom see blade touch skin. Oh, you see a terrified face, you see a knife, you hear a screeching soundtrack and you watch blood swirling down the drain. But you don't see actual stabbing or cutting. That's because wily old Hitch wanted to scare as many of us as much as possible, and he knew that what he left to the imagination, we would fill in ourselves ... and terrify ourselves, each in our own unique way.

Stephen King understands this, too. After all, he created Pennywise the Clown, the manifestation of evil who could see into our souls and know what terrified each of us. Frightened us in a personal, intimate way. Frightened us like it frightened no one else. Blood, bugs, the dark, hairy beasts with claws ... whatever it was, somehow Pennywise knew.

Clearly Pennywise works for AOL these days. How else can you explain the photo that keeps popping up on AOL Main Page today? It's that Brazilian plane that smashed into the Amazon this past weekend, killing everyone on board. All that's left is flattened, twisted metal. If it wasn't for the caption and the lone tire, I wouldn't have known what it was I was looking at. As it was, by the time I realized what it was, it didn't do any good to look away. The image was already seared into me. It might not frighten everyone, but it sure as shit scares me.

I don't know what scares me more: imagining myself on a plane that has a sudden and speedy and violent rendezvous with the earth, or imagining someone I love living through those last few horrible moments before the inevitable. This photo illustrates exactly what I tried NOT to consider last weekend when my best friend was flying to and from Dallas in a small, private plane.

Some kinds of scary are fun -- Hitchcock movies, vampire stories, and other Halloween stuff. Then there's this kind of scary, and there's nothing fun about it.

Instead of SEXY, how about ICKY?

The current issue of US shows Patrick Dempsey looking positively McDreamy. All beautiful hair, dark and artful stubble and positively gorgeous pale blue eyes. The cover proclaims him as SEXY! and I admit it: when I saw it, these old knees went a little weak.

Then I read the article. In a nutshell, here's his past: Dyslexic and therefore a very bad student, Dr. McDreamy dropped out of school at age 17 and went to San Francisco to act. He became best friends with actor Corey Parker. Corey got bit parts on TV while Patrick took acting lessons and held out for movies. In 1987 he got the lead in the teen comedy Can't Buy Me Love and celebrated by marrying his acting coach -- Rocky Parker. Corey's mother. He was 21 and she was 47. Shockingly enough, it didn't last. "It was a Freudian nightmare. I was a little lost," he admits now.

What was that about? What was he thinking? What was SHE thinking? And poor Corey! This is just too weird!

Now I must look up his current wife's line of beauty products, Delux. Maybe she has my perfect McMoisturizer.

Come to Mama

Just heard from Zappos that my new Birkenstocks should arrive before the week ends. I love these shoes. As a matter of fact, these lovely black Sydneys are exactly like the ones I'm wearing now … only these are already once-resoled and once again well worn and it's not worth another trip to the repair shop when the new pair was only $73.95.

Certain forms of retail therapy always lighten my mood. Specifically shoes and purses. I think it's because size doesn't matter. I don't have to be sad because I can only fit into my "fat Birkenstocks" or only carry my "fat bag" today.

At any rate, these lovelies are on their way to their new home, where I'm sure they will be happy. In fact, they already have vacation planned -- a long weekend in Vegas later this month, and the holidays in the Keys.

Is it possible that I'm moving on?

After almost three years and literally thousands of games, I find myself no longer drawn to Turbo 21 at Pogo.com.

I don't know why, but it seems the thrill is going … going … gone.

Is it because Pogo is a completely useless activity? No, it always was. And the time suck aspect was one of the things I perversely loved best. (As in, "Let's see, what have I done today? Laundry? Nope. Letter writing? Nope. Grocery shopping? Nope. Dozens of games of Turbo 21? YES!")

Is it the burgeoning carpal tunnel I predict will afflict my right hand? No. Though giving it a rest might also help loosen that knot in my right shoulder.

I don't know the reason, but the truth is undeniable -- I'm finding it easier and easier to resist the siren song of Pogo.

Shame on you, Rep. Foley

I don't care if he says he's an alcoholic. Booze doesn't turn an otherwise morally upstanding citizen (gay or straight) into a pedophile. What he did was reprehensible. It was his job, his responsibility, to look out for the Congressional pages. And here he was preying upon them. Even worse, he had been the chairman of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children, so he knew the impact his actions could have on these young people. He should now have to face the legal system. Our young people matter, and if individuals can't look out for them, then the system must.

I love thinking of him, ca 1977

When my best friend was 11 years old, he fell in love. With Farrah Fawcett from Charlie's Angels. Just as important as her TV show was her poster. He loved her red swimsuit. Specifically with the outline of her nipple. He remembers gazing at it, imagining it in detail, dreaming about it. She broke his heart when she left the show. The following year he moved on from Farrah to Olivia Newton-John in Grease. But Farrah was his first, and will always have a special place in his heart. I love these stories, and to celebrate all that Farrah once meant to him I got him this mug on eBay.

I don't know why the tales of him as a kid so touch me. But they do. In addition to his love for Farrah and "Livvie," I've heard a saga of each of his boyhood scars … the fall from the back of a truck, the accident at the track meet.

I know each of us had a first crush, each of us has scars from our childhood (some visible, some emotional). But these are his, and that makes them terribly important.

OOOH! This is gonna be fun!

In just a few days, the Dodgers will fly to New York to face the Mets. And former Atlanta Brave (and special centerpiece of this blog) Greg Maddux will face former Atlanta Brave Tom Glavine.

Glavine's numbers aren't as stellar as The Professor's. But they're pretty damn good. Glavine and Maddux are friends, which adds to the drama. And Glavine has remained pretty damn good looking, too.

Thank goodness for the Dodgers and the play-offs. Otherwise I'd be forced to think about the Cubs horrific season (almost 100 losses!) and whether ridding ourselves of Dusty Baker and Andy McPhail will make a difference.

Sorry, but no

I had a few minutes between buses yesterday and stopped at Kohl's. I picked up this Good Skin moisturizer and had nothing but high hopes. Alas, they were all dashed. This moisture cream simply isn't creamy enough to replace my beloved Principal Secret Time Release Moisture. It actually left my skin feeling a little tight.

At first it made me sad that I had wasted $15 on this jar. Then my mom pointed out that I could still use it on my knees, elbows, neck, etc. So now I'm happy … or happy-ish. I really didn't need a new body lotion and I still don't have a replacement face cream. But at least I don't feel like I took three $5 bills, folded them into a little boat, and floated it along the gutter and down the drain with the rainwater.

Damn you, Victoria Principal!

Principal Secret is slowly but surely discontinuing its original spa products. This means that slowly but surely it will be harder and harder for me to get my absolute favorite moisturizer: Time Release Moisture.

I've been using it forever because I love it. Thick and creamy, it goes on easily but never feels heavy and works well under foundation. And now it's going away.

Which means I will now obsess on how to score as much as I can, while I still can, and stockpile it in my linen closet. I just now won an auction for a jar on eBay. I still have the liquidation websites to explore.

I don't enjoy this. But unreasonable product/brand loyalty combined the impulse to hunt and capture are the warp and woof of my personality.

http://onegalsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/05/i-will-not-obsess-i-will-not-obsess-i.html